In The Dark
by killthecoolones
Summary: Gripped by depression, 16 year old Dean Winchester struggles through daily life. Things start to get better when he meets a friendly Castiel Novak, who is the same age as him and practically the best person to exist ever. When the boys' relationship suffers a harsh blow, will both of them come out unscathed, or even alive?
1. Chapter 1

A faint glow from the TV illuminates the room. The video had stopped working years ago, but John, being that ever-so-handy dad he was, decided to fix it up so Dean could have a TV in his room. The images were still faded and tinted green, but Dean barely uses it anyway. Only on nights like tonight, when sleep feels like dying, and flying feels like falling, does he ever turn the old thing on. He keeps it muted, though, so he won't have to hear the overly cheery voices of the airheads trying to sell dragonfly broaches at five in the morning—and so he doesn't wake Sammy, who's only a stone's throw down the hall.

Dean's unseeing eyes stare up at the ceiling like they have been for the past hour. He absently turns a blade over in his hand, thoughts buzzing around in his mind like angry wasps. The sharp edge of the razor digs into his palm and snaps him back to reality. He'd gripped it too tight. Now he'd have a scar on his hand to match the on his arm. "Damn," he hisses as he rolls out of bed. He steps over the piles of clothes he needs to wash and makes his way to the bathroom.

He flicks on the bathroom's single fluorescent light and shuts the door behind him, locks it to be sure. Sam always sleeps with his door open and Dean doesn't want to wake him. Doesn't want to be asked questions he can't answer.

Dean runs cool water over the cut, hisses at the sting, but it feels good. It's calming. He wraps a wash cloth around his hand and leans against the door. He lets his body relax, lets his back slide down the wall. Heavy lids shut over burning eyes and Dean exhales slowly. He can't remember the last time he felt so relaxed, so at peace.. so free.

Sam knocks on the door again. "Dean, come on. At least tell me you're okay," he says. Dean groans and rolls his head to the side. He doesn't remember falling asleep last night, doesn't even remember why he came to the bathroom. But as soon as he sees the red patterns dripping and swirling down his arm, he gets a pretty good idea. "Dean?"

Sam. "Yeah, I'm fine, Sammy. Must've fallen asleep or something." Dean pulls himself up with his good hand and washes the blood off of his bad one.

"We're gonna be late. Hurry up, please."

"Of course."

Dean pulls his backpack out of his locker and heads out to the student parking lot. He's been skipping lunch for a week now, in favor of taking an hour-long nap in the impala. The old car always calms him, makes him feel at home. And it always keeps the darkness out, he's never sad when he's in the car, he's always happy. Happy, happy, happy as can be. Memories fill up his mind as he crawls into the backseat.

_His mom making him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, his dad taking him to his first baseball game, the first time Sammy rode a bike._ There are some things that make you happy no matter how sad you are, and Dean hangs on to them with everything he has. He can't lose the past because without it, he'll have no future. He lays down with his head on his backpack, letting the memories wash over him and fill him with hope. Hope for tomorrow; hope that he'll get better soon. Absently rubbing his left arm, still tender from the night before, he falls asleep.

Dean wakes up on his own accord at 12:48. The bell is going to ring at 1:10, so he has time to rub the sleep from his eyes before fifth period. Dean breathes in the leather of the impala, and a new flood of memories comes rushing in. _Sammy's first day of school, the day dad gave Dean the impala, the day Dean and Sam skipped school and had milkshakes at Jim's Burgers just because._

Dean smiles to himself. Leaning back against the seats, the last of the winter's chill on his face, it's like he's reliving that day. He can hear ten-year-old Sammy asking over and over again if it was okay to not be at school. He remembers saying _it's fine, Sam, now shut up_, and doing his best not to look like a fourteen year old boy skipping school for the first time ever. Dean sighs. He remembers the darkness pulling him down into the pit. He remembers having to go home early and explain why him and Sam weren't in school. He remembers trying to convince Sam that he was fine. He remembers the look on Sam's face. He remembers crying that night, and the night after. Dean shakes away the memory and opens the door to the impala. "Pull yourself together, Dean," he tells himself, "Pull yourself together."


	2. Chapter 2

Pretending that you're happy isn't that hard to do. Dean has pretended to be happy so much that he's almost convinced himself that he's happy. It doesn't last for long, though. As soon as he gets home and to his room, the weight comes back. The pressure on his chest reminding him of all the bad things in his life, all the things he regrets, all the things he could have done to make things better. Sometimes it seems like that weight will never go away.

Dean pulls his backpack higher up on his shoulder. He doesn't even know why he carries it anymore. The only thing inside of it is his poetry book, his mom's poetry book, and all the work he never finishes. He could leave his poetry book and the work at home, but Mary's poetry book he could never part with. He found it in John's closet when he was eleven. He was hiding in there from Sam, who had grown very fond of the game hide and seek after Mary died, and there it was just sitting on top of a box marked 'Mary'. Dean opened it cautiously, peeking out of the closet door to make sure no one was around. The very first page was titled 'I carry your heart with me'. Dean read the rest of the page very slowly, not believing his eyes. 'I carry your heart with me(I carry it in my heart)' the poem was the exact same one his mother would read to him almost every night when he was Sammy's age.

Dean flipped through the rest of the book. He recognized some, others he had no clue about, but it didn't matter. It was his mother's and he would hold on to anything of hers forever. He always kept the book with him wherever he went from that day on, reading the first poem daily, and the others leisurely whenever he wanted.

Dean pulls the small book out of his backpack and flips to a random page. It's entitled _Happiness. _He doesn't know if he wants to read this one. Under the title is the poet's name, Priscilla Leonard. _Well, Priscilla_, he thinks, _here goes nothing_. He sits at his usual spot in a corner of the cafeteria with Jo and her friends and reads the poem to himself.

_Happiness is like a crystal_

_Fair and exquisite and clear_

Jo and Ash smile and laugh together, joking about the dumb jocks and cheerleaders parading around the lunchroom.

_Broken in a million pieces,_

_Shattered, scattered far and near._

Dean sees a little star in the corner of the page—he's seen them before, all in different ink, and assumes those are her favorites—this time in red ink. He sees why his mother would love this one more than others. He wonders vaguely if he's one of her little pieces of happiness.

_Now and then along life's pathway,_

_Lo! Some shining fragments fall;_

_But there are so many pieces_

_No one ever finds them all._

Sam is probably a piece of happiness for her—John, too.

_You may find a bit of beauty,_

_Or an honest share of wealth,_

_While another just beside you_

_Gathers honor, love or health._

_Vain to choose or grasp unduly,_

_Broken is the perfect ball;_

_And there are so many pieces_

_No one ever finds them all_

Priscilla seems to have a pretty good point. Dean likes her idea of happiness; he likes the idea that it's broken into a million pieces, just waiting for someone to find it.

_Yet the wise as on they journey_

_Treasure every fragment clear._

_Fit them as they may together, _

_Imagining the shattered sphere,_

_Learning ever to be thankful,_

_Though their share of it is small;_

_For it has so many pieces_

_No one ever finds them all._

Dean looks at Jo and wonders how many pieces she's found. Her smile looks genuine, so he figures she's found enough. Ash, though he barely smiles, is happy enough just with Jo. You can tell because his eyes crinkle up at the corners ever so often, when Jo isn't looking. Pamela probably makes her own pieces of happiness, pretending like everything is okay, when really she's breaking inside. Or maybe she's just genuinely happy, and chooses to share her happiness with everyone else. Dean frowns. She never really shares her happiness with him. Dean thinks about his own happiness. How many pieces had he collected so far?

"So, Dean how's your book?" Jo asks, sliding over and wrapping her arm around his waist, "Oh, and where were you last week? We didn't see you at lunch at all."

"Oh, uh, sorry I didn't tell you. I was studying for Physics. Mr. R gives us quizzes all the time and I've been a little behind.." Dean shoots Jo a half smile; it's all he can muster up for at the moment.

"Oh, dude, right? The tests he gives all the time _suck_. You should've told me, Dean-o, I need to work on Physics too."

"Sorry. I didn't think about it."

"Don't worry about it."

Ash and Pamela are having a mini-food-fight between themselves and Jo takes the moment to get her face really close to Dean's. Everything around them freezes for a moment and it's just them. "Are you okay, Dean?" She asks. Her voice is quiet, but she's not whispering. Her breath smells like apple juice and her hair tickles his neck. Dean nods silently, folding the corner of the page that Happiness is on in his mother's book. "Okay," she says. And she leaves it at that. The moment ends and everything snaps back to normal. Ash and Pamela are still having their food fight. The 'popular' kids are still acting like they own the place. Nothing's changed.

Dean doesn't say anything for the rest of the lunch period. They're not really his friends anyway, they're Jo's. It's not that he doesn't want to know them; he just doesn't have the self-esteem to get to know them. Hell, he's known Jo since 7th grade and he's still getting to know her.

Dean sits through sixth period Physics, and another test he doesn't know the answers to, until, finally, the bell rings and he gets to go to Algebra II. Dean likes math, he's _good _at math. Math is simple. You have a problem and you solve it. It's so much easier than actual problems you have in life. Problems in math are straight lines, and while problems in life may start out as straight lines, they all curve and twist into one another, and solving one of them—you can't even attempt to solve all of them—becomes impossible.

Dean finishes his paper before anyone else and asks to go to the bathroom. Mr. Scott hands him a hall pass without looking up from his laptop. Dean likes Mr. Scott, one time he caught Dean smoking outside of the school and instead of busting him, he asked for a light and they just smoked together for a while. It was pretty cool. Then Mr. Scott said, don't let me catch you again, and left. Surprisingly, things weren't awkward at school the next day; they just kind of gained a mutual respect for each other. So Dean walks down the hall slowly, taking his time to read all the words covering lockers and posters. "B + C = 4ever" "jake sucks!" "fag!"

He sighs and enters the bathroom. He glances around and under the stalls to make sure he's alone; he is. Dean locks the door and exhales slowly. He searches his mind for all his pieces of happiness. There's none. He pulls out a razor from his pocket. He carries it around with him in case he needs it. There are 6 billion people in the world, all of them have their pieces of happiness, and all of them have something to be proud of. Dean cuts a line down the soft flesh of his left arm. Little beads of blood pool up almost instantly. It seems like he's lost all the pieces of happiness he might've collected a long time ago. He cuts again, this time deeper. Blood drips down his arm. He exhales slowly again, relaxing. There are millions of pieces of happiness spread across the world, so why does it feel like Dean's found none?


End file.
